by Nick Webb
Danny nodded slowly. “Well, having been dead once myself, I can’t say I remember every last detail of my fall through San Martin’s atmosphere. The landing? Forget it. Memory can be a tricky thing during trauma. Just ask Granger. And Curiel did just almost die at Britannia. From the sound of things it’s not a surprise it left him with some memory loss.”
Cooper fell silent for a moment, considering this. They were nearly out of the gravity well by then, and the line of the Bolivaran atmosphere hung like a blue crescent on the horizon. “Well whether it was an act or not, I managed to ensure that we can verify his identity.” She held up a hand, and wiggled her middle finger. “I shook his hand, but I accidentally scratched his wrist as I pulled away. Very slight, but enough that I think we can swab it and get some skin cells. I want them analyzed and compared to his records.”
“Records?” Danny shook his head. “Medical records aren’t exactly public knowledge, ma’am.”
Cooper was looking straight at Liu.
“Yeah, I still have connections at IDF Intel,” she said after a few uncomfortable seconds.
“Good. I’m going to need the results ASAP. There’s too much riding on this to wait. We’re going to Earth. I assume your contacts are there?”
“Some of them, yeah.”
Senator Cooper turned to Danny. “Then what are we waiting for?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sol Sector
Near Earth
ISS Indendence
Bridge
They were running out of time, and Proctor knew it. Commander Zivic was having a fair amount of success as a miracle worker, getting the ragtag fleet of broken-down ships prepped and ready for launch back at Wellington Station. She was on her way back to Earth to pick up the heroes that had volunteered to pilot the fleet. Not just heroes—they were angels.
And the whole way, her companion was sending her a steady stream of what she could only describe as concerned emotions that they were taking too long.
EVERY HOUR BRINGS THEM CLOSER TO PARADISO, SHELBY PROCTOR.
“I know that,” she said out loud in her quarters. She’d taken a rare moment to go change into a fresh uniform, and once she was there she decided it was also high time to shower. “But we can’t do this alone. We just can’t. Polrum Krull already turned me down. Kharsa’s next, and I fear what he may say.”
THE WORST HE CAN SAY IS NO.
“The worst he can say is, ‘No, and also by the way I’m fighting on the Findiri’s side.’”
HE WOULDN’T SAY THAT. HE CAME TO THE BATTLE OF PENUMBRA. THEY LOST A GREAT MANY WARRIORS.
“I know,” she sighed. Her companion didn’t quite understand the nuance of human sarcasm and exaggeration. “I just don’t have a good argument to make to him right now. I’ll ask for help, and he’ll want to know about the Findiri. And when I tell him I don’t know, he’ll laugh in my face.”
THE BENEFIT OF TALKING TO HIM THROUGH THE PROTO-LIGATURE IS THAT YOU HAVE NO FACE FOR HIM TO LAUGH AT, SHELBY PROCTOR.
She chuckled. Maybe her companion was picking up on human humor. “True enough. Okay, patch me through.”
Did she really just say patch me through, as if her companion were opening a hailing channel to another starship?
READY.
Oh. That was fast. She reached out with her mind, and, indeed, she did feel the presence of someone else. She . . . listened—the best way she could describe it—to the feeling of that presence, and felt the unmistakable flavor of an alien personality. Not human. And somehow it did feel like Vishgane Kharsa.
Vishgane. It’s me, Shelby Proctor.
Why do you contact me?
I need to show you something. A threat. Something that may overwhelm us all.
Nothing overwhelms the Dolmasi.
He said it so matter-of-factly, so confidently, she didn’t have the heart to point out to him how easily the Swarm had overwhelmed the Dolmasi, and controlled them, for thousands of years.
True, great Vishgane. And yet a threat emerges, and is on its way now. Is there any harm in coming, just to see? To witness its strength?
I am rebuilding my homeworld. Verdra Dol burned when Granger’s nightmare ship passed by. We lost thousands of our best warriors at the great battle of the black hole. We’ve suffered too much getting involved in human wars. My answer is final and unmovable. No.
Vishgane—
No. Do not contact me again unless it is with an offer to help, instead of a plea for deliverance.
She reached out again, trying to say more, but it was as if he’d turned off a comm channel. He simply wasn’t there anymore.
“Well. I knew he’d say no. But I wasn’t expecting him to sound like my mother used to. You never call unless you want something!”
That left them with the Chinese and the Russian Confederation. Both agreed to send an observer ship. The Caliphate, not unexpectedly, politely declined. Their decentralized pacifist government took their neutrality and intentional uninvolvement rather seriously, to a fault.
“Ma’am, this is Sampono,” came a voice from the internal comm channel.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s Captain Whitehorse. She sent a meta-space message. It’s short. Itharan success. Eru talks ongoing, but slow.”
“Well! Best news I’ve heard all day. Thank you, Ensign.”
So. Out of the eight invitations she’d sent out, three had accepted. That left only one, and it was still unanswered. “Still nothing from the GPC? Any indication that their leadership even received the message?”
“Nothing yet, ma’am.”
Strange. Ever since Curiel’s death, the GPC had been thrown into disarray. He was the force of personality that had held it together for years, and now that he was gone it had become apparent that he had not left behind solid succession plans. “Doesn’t the C in GPC stand for congress? Don’t they have some kind of representative governing structure?”
“It does, ma’am. But you know how congresses work. Gridlock, until someone up above is telling half of them what to do. Plus the GPC has like a hundred different factions. They’ve yet to vote on a new leader.”
“Right. Thank you, Ensign. Proctor out.”
She finished buttoning up her uniform top and sat down to pull her boots on. “Three out of eight ain’t bad. Better than zero.”
Her comm beeped again. “Admiral, we’ve arrived at Earth.”
It’s showtime.
“On my way.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Britannia Sector
Donnelly Station
“Mr. President, come with us,” said one of the Secret Service officers. Without waiting for him to reply, they each grabbed one of his arms and moved him out the door.
“Goddammit! I can walk by myself.” Sepulveda shrugged their hands off his arms and pointed down the hall. “Where the hell are we going? Interstellar One is gone. Are we just going to hole up in a closet? The fucking station is under attack!”
The two officers glanced at each other, with what Sepulveda detected was a touch of nervousness creeping into their urgency. “We need a more defensible position in case of a boarding party.”
“Boarding party? They just shot my ship out of the sky without a single word of warning, and you think they’re going to just stop shooting and send over someone to arrest me?”
They both reached out to grab his arms again to pull him along. “Sir, if they wanted to destroy the station, they could have done so along with the ship. That means they want you alive. So come with us—now.”
The man had a point, so he stopped arguing and resisting the hands pulling on him and allowed himself to be led through a maze of corridors.
“Felt to President Sepulveda,” said a voice coming from a monitor on the wall. Commander Felt’s face appeared on it. “You there, sir?”
Sepulveda shook the hands off again and approached the monitor. “What is it now?”
“Get to the shuttle bay! We’ve got a shutt
le with q-jump capability there,” yelled Felt.
“Roger that,” said one of the Secret Service. “Keep us updated on my comm channel,” he added, pointing up at his earpiece. “Frequency IDFC 9.” Seeing Felt nod, he turned back toward Sepulveda.
More hands. More pulling. They rushed down the corridor and turned into another—the main promenade running down the length of the station.
The klaxons were ringing by that point. Flashing red lights pulsed at every intersection of every corridor joining up with the main promenade, and handfuls of technicians and data scientists were streaming out of rooms, heading for their emergency stations.
A firm but agitated voice came over the speakers. “All hands, prepare for boarding. All IDF officers to the armory for firearm assignments. All civilian staff to their quarters. Lock and barricade your doors.”
Sepulveda glanced down at the sidearms the two men were carrying in their other hands. “Uh, is that enough if we get into a serious firefight?”
“No, sir, that’s why we’re making a pitstop at the armory before the shuttle bay. It’s on the way.”
It wasn’t a large station, and the armory was ahead of them at the end of the main hallway and down one of the side corridors. They could tell because of the line of IDF officers queued up and the stream of armed officers coming out of it. The Secret Service pushed their way through, pulling Sepulveda along with them.
“Hey! United Earth Secret Service,” began one the officers to the lieutenant passing out the weapons at the head of the line. The man glanced over at them and his eyes bulged when he saw the president. “Got some for us?”
“On it,” he replied, and he pulled two more assault rifles off the wall and tossed them over. Each officer caught with one spare hand, keeping the other firmly on Sepulveda’s arm. Impressive. “Ammo’s in the bins there,” he said, pointing to containers lining the wall near the door.
“Thanks.” The Secret Service let go of him, finally, reached in to grab a few magazines each, and loaded the rifles before nudging him toward the door. “Let’s move, sir.”
A series of explosions in the distance, each one getting louder—and therefore, closer—made the officers stop in their tracks. “We’ve been boarded.”
The other officer tapped his earpiece. “Felt, this is Officer Heinz with Tombstone. Is the shuttle bay still clear?”
After a few moments, the officer nodded. “Acknowledged.” He looked up at them. “Shuttle bay is taken. Distress calls were sent out, but IDF can’t get a ship here for another fifteen minutes.”
Sepulveda felt a sinking feeling in his chest. How many times had Former President Avery had her own Interstellar One taken out during the Second Swarm War? Was it twice? At least he was in good company.
She, however, was always one step ahead of them.
Him?
“We’re fucked.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Britannia Sector
Orbit of Britannia Debris Cloud
ISS Dirac
Captain’s Ready Room
Something big. Or several medium somethings. Or tons of small somethings. Any way you looked at it, Captain Rayna Scott had a problem on her hands. Whatever had come over from the Swarm’s universe through that Russian artificial singularity was now smeared out in the debris cloud of Britannia.
She looked out her window at the red glowing maelstrom. A cloud that was quickly becoming not a cloud, but an angry red ball of lava surrounded by a thousands-of-kilometers deep halo of gas and particles that were ever-so-slowly cooling down. Occasionally, larger clumps of debris in orbit around a common center of mass would collide with each other, creating magnificent explosions and sending new clouds of matter through the existing debris field, like a fiery wave.
It would be impossible to actually piece together what it was. Too many variables, not enough constraints.
She watched another giant chunk of debris drift closer and closer to them in their orbit. She’d had the Dirac maintain a safe distance, but it was still unnerving watching that red clump of semi-molten rock drift ever closer to them.
She eyed its trajectory, and saw that it would most likely collide with another, somewhat smaller molten rock.
Another two minutes, she guessed.
It drifted closer, and closer, and she held her breath in silent anticipation for the fireworks show. It had become such a common sight the past few weeks that it had just become background noise to her. But studying the seemingly chaotic movements and swirls and waves of matter, she realized what a beautiful thing it was. A dance. A ballet, all set to the music of Newtonian mechanics.
They smashed into each other, and the expected cloud of white-hot debris blasted out. It turned out the larger object had struck with only a glancing blow. Nevertheless, both bodies disintegrated in a spectacular white cloud that was already starting to turn red at the fringes due to radiative cooling. The cloud writhed and twisted and turned, all governed by Newton. Rotation induced by conservation of angular momentum. Like a miniature version of the gargantuan catastrophe that had happened weeks ago.
“My god,” she said to the empty ready room. “That’s it.”
She bolted from the room. The bridge was a hum of activity, and Lieutenant N’Bongo glanced up from his station, surprised at her sudden brisk arrival.
“Captain? Can’t sleep?”
“We may not be able to determine the exact composition of what came through. But! We can figure out where it came through. And maybe even when. Definitely where.”
Charles’s face lit up. “Oh? How?”
“Simple questions get simple answers, Charles. Two words: angular momentum. Two followup words: conservation of.”
He smiled, but slowly shook his head. “I’m not following.”
“When Titan hit Britannia, it didn’t quite hit it directly head-on. It was a somewhat glancing blow. That converted a huge amount of angular momentum into the angular momentum we see in the spin of that cloud. Add to that the spin of Titan and the spin of Britannia, all the angular momentums add up to what we see now, time-evolved over several weeks.”
The head shaking was turning into nodding. Good. He was getting it. “Okay. So the distribution of the matter from the Swarm ship will be concentrated mainly along one orbit of the cloud, dependent on the vector at which Titan struck the planet and its original spin.”
“Exactly. And the matter we’re interested in will be concentrated along a separate orbit. One determined mainly by the rotation of Britannia.”
He drummed his fingers on his console absent-mindedly. “Assuming of course that the artificial singularity was on Britannia and not Titan. Or on some ship in orbit at the time.”
“Unless that singularity was on the Swarm ship, it shouldn’t matter. And if it was, there’s no way it could have survived its initial impact with Titan in the first place. Wherever it was, we’ll be able to determine it’s exact orbit.”
“If not its exact location in that orbit, right ma’am?”
She scratched her temple. “Hm. No, not it’s exact location. But we’ll be able to determine a probability distribution along that orbit. And where the probability distribution peaks, well … it’ll all depend on our error bars, Lieutenant.”
He was already tapping his console, entering in commands, and smiling broadly. “Well then, I’ll get busy generating us some error bars, ma’am!”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Sol Sector
Earth
ISS Independence
Bridge
It was a whirlwind eight hours. They’d made stops at both Wellington station and Earth, to ready the sacrificial fleet and to gather the skeleton crews required. And they’d briefly rendezvoused with the Volz and picked up Commander Shin-Wentworth, who Whitehorse had vouched for as someone who could command one of the sacrificial ships. They were back at Wellington, about to staff the ships. And now Proctor was doing the part of the job she hated. The second worst thing a commande
r had to do: inform soldiers that their “high-risk” mission was in fact a likely suicide mission by another name. It still beat the worst thing.
Telling their families about it afterward.
They were gathered in the shuttle bay in front of her. About a hundred men and women. The mission was administratively designated “high-risk, high-reward,” which to the average IDF soldier meant that, if they survived, they’d most likely see instant, high profile promotions, many multiples of bonus pay, and, of course, the glory and bragging rights that go along with hero status.
But when she perused the personnel files of the volunteers, she noticed a common theme.
They were all from Britannia.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Tim,” she’d told Granger as they parted at Wellington Shipyards last time she was there. “Those people lost everything. Their families, friends, homes—everything. And now I ask them to die?”
“I think you’re looking at it wrong,” he’d said. “They’ve lost everything, yes. I bet, for many of these people, they already feel dead. Going through the act of dying merely formalizes it. And they probably are thinking, ‘Hey, if I can at least save some people by that act, then why not?’”
“In regular times, these people would need counseling, not suicide missions.”
“These are not regular times,” he’d said. “You remember during the Second Swarm War? Those dying starships that I ordered to ram into the Swarm ships? They named me the bricklayer for that.”
“Yeah,” she’d said. “I remember being shocked by it at the time. But what shocked me was that there was no talk-back, no questioning of the orders by the recipients. They just . . . did it. Without question. They just did it. They sacrificed themselves without a peep.”